Wednesday, June 26, 2013

In Spite of Everything, the Stars

Like a stunned piano, like a bucket

of fresh milk flung into the air
or a dozen fists of confetti
thrown hard at a bride
stepping down from the altar,
the stars surprise the sky.
Think of dazed stones
floating overhead, or an ocean
of starfish hung up to dry. Yes,
like a conductor's expectant arm
about to lift toward the chorus,
or a juggler's plates defying gravity,
or a hundred fastballs fired at once
and freezing in midair, the stars
startle the sky over the city.

And that's why drunks leaning up
against abandoned buildings, women
hurrying home on deserted side streets,
policemen turning blind corners, and
even thieves stepping from alleys
all stare up at once. Why else do
sleepwalkers move toward the windows,
or old men drag flimsy lawn chairs
onto fire escapes, or hardened criminals
press sad foreheads to steel bars?
Because the night is alive with lamps!
That's why in dark houses all over the city
dreams stir in the pillows, a million
plumes of breath rise into the sky.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

I loved my landline phone. I loved the reliability and sound of the hardwire service, the heft of the phone as I cradled it on my shoulder. When power went out, my princess-style phone didn't: plugged into the phone jack, it needed no electricity to do its job.

Sure, I didn't have Caller ID, but hey, I lived without it for most of my life. Plus, frankly, I don't need to know everything right away. I kind of liked the joy and surprise of picking up the phone and hearing a friend's voice without having had a clue to who it was. I got unpleasant surprises enough times, too, but that was life — well, life before Caller ID.

Then came cell phones. Suddenly, where you were didn't matter — and, apparently, neither did call sound quality. We expected call sound quality to improve because we had crystal clear sound on our landlines, so of course our phone carriers would match what we already had. Ha.

A few years ago, when I moved out of my home and away from my landline, I was in transition. I didn't have a place to put the "home" phone number I had used since sometime in the early 1990s. I "parked" my number on a spare cell phone until my family landed in a permanent location.

When we did, I checked with the phone company for landline service. Boy, was I surprised and disappointed: the service was available (my new-to-me house is just a few months older than I am) but costly. I saw the writing on the wall. Landline wasn't going to be around for long. New technology made telephone service cheaper for the provider (which, in this case, surprisingly enough, meant cheaper for the consumer, too). If the old technology is priced high enough, people will stop purchasing it, and the company can stop providing it. Brilliant — for someone. Not me.

I like a "home" line with multiple extensions so everyone can get on the phone and chat at once.

I like hearing a phone ring in whatever room I'm in without having to carry it around with me.

I like having crisp, clean sound so the voice is clear and the background sounds can add interest and flavor.

I like having a phone to which I do not need to attend during every waking moment. Having a location-specific phone meant I could answer it when it was convenient to me, rather than the moment it rang. Sure, we say we'll do that, but when was the last time you let a call ring over to voicemail without at least hitting a button? Your attention is diverted, your energy rerouted, your mind sent elsewhere. I could come home to be reminded about my next day's dental appointment, or I could check my messages remotely at my convenience in case I was expecting a call. Don't even start me on battery life: what's the use of having a mobile phone when it needs to be plugged in most of the time so the battery remains charged?

And so, three years after moving into my new-old house, I finally faced my Juggling Phone Act.

"Home" phone on which I park my landline: I am the only one who answers it or checks the messages. Everyone else uses their own phone numbers and voicemail systems.

Cell phone: I am the only one who answers it. I have had the number since the early 1990s, or whenever phones migrated from home/car to pockets. I use it as my "phone book" (remember those?) but little else: no text or "smart" capabilities. Usually found in my purse (or, when purse-free, my pocket).

Work mobile phone: I am the only one who answers it for after-hour work-related emergencies. (I don't go looking for trouble when I'm not at work. It will find me soon enough.) Has "smart" capabilities, but rarely used: have you tried to use that stuff on a 2-by-3 inch screen? (My opinion may change if they ever migrate me to a fancy smartphone; for the time being, I'm a few generations behind, and that suits me fine.)

How much time did I want to spend monitoring my devices? None, really. Phones aren't meant to be managed and monitored, just answered when someone calls. I don't want to be pinged every time someone posts something on social media or someone wants to write me a message. (For the record, I don't text.) I have enough media pounding into my head day in and day out: music, computers, television, and now telephones. Cell phones. Er, "smartphones." "Hand-held devices." Whatever.

Plus, it cost money. Granted, it cost little, but I prefer to spend my money on things I want — and that wasn't at the top of my list.

Finally, the local phone company has begun refusing to fix landline hardware and wires. That narrowed my choices: move to voice-over Internet protocol or
lose a fixed line at home — which isn't a single location, but a spot on
the World Wide Web. Great.

So, I cut the ties that bind and reduced my contact by a single phone. I sacrificed my second-longest number to the greater good, and I suspect whoever gets it will spend a lot of time saying, "Chris who?" (Sorry about that, buddy.) I blame cell phone address books, which list our "cell phone" number first in the contact record. (Go ahead, look. I'll wait.) (See?)

Long story short: I now tote my phone around. Badly, I might add: I left both personal and work cells at home within 24 hours of the launch of my "One Person, One Phone (Sort Of)" experiment.

We will see how it works out. In the meantime, if I don't answer, just leave a message. (Just don't text. Some thing never change.)

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

The quake last night was nothing personal,
you told me this morning. I think one always wonders,
unless, of course, something is visible: tremors
that take us, private and willy-nilly, are usual.
But the earth said last night that what I feel,
you feel; what secretly moves you, moves me.
One small, sensuous catastrophe
makes inklings letters, spelled in a worldly tremble.
The earth, with others on it, turns in its course
as we turn toward each other, less than ourselves, gross,
mindless, more than we were. Pebbles, we swell
to planets, nearing the universal roll,
in our conceit even comprehending the sun,
whose bright ordeal leaves cool men woebegone.

Earth Tremors Felt in Missouri

The quake last night was nothing personal,
you told me this morning. I think one always wonders,
unless, of course, something is visible: tremors
that take us, private and willy-nilly, are usual.
But the earth said last night that what I feel,
you feel; what secretly moves you, moves me.
One small, sensuous catastrophe
makes inklings letters, spelled in a worldly tremble.
The earth, with others on it, turns in its course
as we turn toward each other, less than ourselves, gross,
mindless, more than we were. Pebbles, we swell
to planets, nearing the universal roll,
in our conceit even comprehending the sun,
whose bright ordeal leaves cool men woebegone.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16323#sthash.NXr6crDF.dpuf

Earth Tremors Felt in Missouri

The quake last night was nothing personal,
you told me this morning. I think one always wonders,
unless, of course, something is visible: tremors
that take us, private and willy-nilly, are usual.
But the earth said last night that what I feel,
you feel; what secretly moves you, moves me.
One small, sensuous catastrophe
makes inklings letters, spelled in a worldly tremble.
The earth, with others on it, turns in its course
as we turn toward each other, less than ourselves, gross,
mindless, more than we were. Pebbles, we swell
to planets, nearing the universal roll,
in our conceit even comprehending the sun,
whose bright ordeal leaves cool men woebegone.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16323#sthash.NXr6crDF.dpuf

Thursday, June 13, 2013

More often than not, my library use defines my interest of the moment. So, class, what am I checking out these days?

First, there's Michael Crichton. Karen and I are reading Next together, and I like Richard Preston.

Then there's Taoism, which I find fascinating. I've read most of the Tao Te Ching and all of TheTao of Pooh. Is it applicable to my way of life right about now? One way to find out.

Finally,
weirdly enough, I'm less insulted by being called an "idiot" than
"dummy," so I go for that line of instructional books. No, seriously, I
like the way they're written and formatted (not to mention I'm more of a
fan of orange than yellow). If you want a good overview, go to the
Idiots, I always say.

Or, "Join the club."

I may not finish all of these books immediately (aside from Next). I can handle only one Crichton at a time, and the novels have to be properly spaced to avoid author fatigue.

Plus, I can tolerate only so much philosophy before it starts to sound like pablum. I may have chosen unwisely for the topic of Taoism. (David is reading The Tao of Pooh right now, but I may steal it from him if my hardcover copy doesn't arrive by tomorrow — thanks, Amazon Prime!)

At any rate, this stack is not long for this reader. Crichton is a quick read and my Idiot level for social media may be sort of low. Anyway, no need to keep any of these books out of the hands of other like-minded souls, right?

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

In this exquisite reading from New York’s 92Y, the great James Earl Jones
brings his formidable dramatic prowess to sections 6, 7, 17, 18, and
19, breathing explosive new life into Whitman’s timeless verses.

"Song of Myself" begins grandly, sweepingly and famously:

I celebrate myself;
And what I assume you shall assume;
For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my Soul;
I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes—the shelves are crowded with perfumes;
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it;
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume—it has no taste of the distillation—it is odorless;
It is for my mouth forever—I am in love with it;
I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked;
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

Monday, June 10, 2013

My friends Alex and Philip just began their summer vacation — which, for me, always meant books. Scads and piles and armfuls of books. I'd go to the library a couple of times a week to return the ones I had inhaled and come home with more.

It was a gorgeous week in Los Angeles when, as a fourth grader, I holed myself up in my room and read the the entire Chronicles of Narnia. (It was five days, really.) I still remember shivering from the cold of the eternal winter and the White Witch.

But this is today. What do — no, should — the kids of today read? Well, I'm glad you asked. Here are a few suggestions. (People of an age may recognize a title or two.)

Up the Down Staircase — a New York City high school teacher new to the education system experiences life in a big-city high school.

The Graveyard Book — A toddler wanders into a graveyard one tumultuous night and is raised by its residents.

To Kill a Mockingbird — This classic page-turner is one of my personal favorites. Read the book before you see the movie, if you can, if only so you can experience the amazing world of Scout Finch twice.

Last night, David was thumbing through his Dean Koontz collection to see how much sex was depicted in those books. I chuckled. "I used to read it anyway, even if I didn't understand it," I confessed. "I'd be more worried about gratuitous violence."

So, maybe skip The Strain? (No, on second thought, don't skip it.) Too much swearing? Must be Stephen King — but don't let that stop you, either, not really. Just stop if the writing is too bad — and you alone can decide what that means to you.

Don't let book classifications scare you off, either. Books are written cross-genre, but publishers have to figure out how to market them. So what if it's written for "teens" — it may very well be up your alley anyway. "Classics" are classic for a reason: they're often really, really good. Dumas and Dickens, Doyle and Austen, Stevenson and Wells are fabulous reads, even on the beach. Especially on the beach. Who do you think came up with the idea of the melodrama or swashbuckler?